He found number forty-two quick enough. Inside it was a mess. He saw one of the previous occupants had patched the leaky roof, but he was certain the entire population of flies and chiggers in the county had taken up residence. He put the shotgun over the door, propped behind the nails hammered on each end. While he was unloading what he’d bought, he heard a raspy, slithering noise overhead. He suspected a king snake, or at least he hoped that’s what it was. The interior stunk to high heaven, and he tried to find the source of the smell. He pulled open the door on the wood-burning stove and drew back when he looked in. There was the carcass of a possum in the oven, half cooked, now rotted. He held his nose, surveyed the tiny room, noted a stained mattress filled with a less-than-adequate amount of Spanish moss upon which he was supposed to sleep. The walls had gaps in the wood wide enough he could stick a finger through them, and daylight spilled into the dank interior, creating vertical gold streaks across the dirt floor. At least the gaps allowed the air to stir, but come winter, he’d have to chink them somehow, or fill them with newspapers. Hard to believe this was one of the nicer spots intended for the whites. At least he had a roof over his head, crude though it was.
He found a bucket, pulled the possum out of the stove, and dumped it in that. He shut the door to the shack, hurried down on the steps, noticing the turpentine work was starting back up. He tossed the possum into the woods, set the bucket inside his fence, and headed toward the voices echoing in a singsong like chant off in the distance. It was an old familiar rhythm he recollected from earlier times and as he came closer, call names like Sweet Thang, Big Time, and Dew Drop almost made him smile. There was usually meaning behind the names, nonsensical to anyone who didn’t do the work, but they delivered a hint of the owner’s personality, their dreams, their special loves, or whatever struck them. For the woods riders, or tally men, it was how they kept up with what was being done by each man. In between were snatches of songs. Near to the woods, he took note of a vacant section already worked and the timber cut. In the cleared area, in a remote spot away from the camp, was something he’d never seen. A wooden box sat in the hot sun, an oddity against the backdrop of nature. About the same length as a coffin, that’s exactly what it resembled. He’d heard of something like this being used as a disciplinary measure. It was called a sweatbox and for good reason.
Curious, Del looked around, then trotted over to it. He noted how the weather had allowed cracks in the wood. He squatted down and peered through them only to stand back up quick, startled by bloodshot, wild-looking eyes blinking at him. He backed away, then heard a scrape, and a soft whisper.
He said, “Hey. You all right?”
It came again, a whispered request. “Water.”
Who did they have in there, and what had he done? The nearest well was back the way he’d come, but he had to try to do something.
He said, “Hang on.”
Whoever was inside moaned. Del hustled along the path and slowed down at the sight of his new boss ahead.
Crow called out, “Hey! What’re you doing?”
Del pointed back at the box. “Thought I heard something.”
“That ain’t none of your business.”
Del didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot, and changed the subject.
He said, “I just got hired, working for you, actually. I’m ready to start if you got something for me. I’ll chip, tack tin, dip gum, it don’t matter much to me.”
Crow raised his eyebrows and said, “What? That’s nigra work.”
Del felt compelled to explain. “Mr. Taylor, Peewee, said he ain’t looking for no boss men, and he said I could do what I wanted.”
He and Del assessed each other for a second or two, then Crow said, “Follow me.”
He took off, and Del fell in behind him, giving one last apologetic look over his shoulder. Neither of them spoke the entire time it took to get to the crop of longleaf. Once there, Del noticed the cleared bases and slashes on trunks to identify where to work. Crow retrieved a tool from a burlap bag near a tree and handed it to him.
He said, “What’s your call name gonna be?”
Del considered the question for a second, then said, “Butler.”
Crow scribbled it on a pad and said, “Show me.”
Del walked over to stand near the trunk of a longleaf pine, the strips of bark taken out previously beginning to reveal the telltale catface. It had been a while since he’d wielded a bark hack. He turned it so the sharp edge would hit the tree, and struck once above an old streak. The method came back to him quick. He swiped to the right. This created a new slash above the last. He moved it to the other side and did the same, the two streaks now meeting in that distinctive chevron. The newly made marks allowed gum to run toward the tin gutters positioned to guide the thick, syrupy runoff into a clay cup. He recognized the clay cups and gutters as a new technique invented by a man with the last name of Herty, known as the Herty system.